STARGIRL, alexia putellas

9. game day

The following few days could only be described in three words: practice, practice, practice. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, everything seemed to have returned to a semblance of normality with Alexia during training. The flirting had given way to sharp looks and stern words. It was as if our locker room encounter had never happened. I couldn't tell if I was relieved or slightly disappointed. 

Soon enough, the day of the match against Sevilla had arrived, and my stomach felt like it had transformed into a playground for anxious butterflies, the kind that were prone to erratic somersaults. I'm talking Olympic-level gymnastics here. It was the culmination of my efforts since joining Barcelona, and I was ready to prove my worth to my new team.

If I could put my anxiety to good use, I'd be unstoppable. It was a bizarre mix of exhilaration, terror, and a dash of pure adrenaline. Like running a marathon with your shoelaces untied – you knew it was going to be a wild ride, and your chances of crashing were pretty high.

It didn't help that I had the added bonus of my family in the stands – a delightful mixture of moral support and potential judgment. Leticia was especially excited. She had already texted me three times, her emojis ranging from thumbs-up to heart eyes. She was like a proud parent at a school recital, and I half-expected her to show up with a giant foam finger.

As I arrived at the stadium, the atmosphere was electric. The fans painted in the team's colours, flags waving like they were warding off a swarm of bees, and the chants that could rattle the earth itself. This was what I lived for, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of the game. I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel like standing in the eye of a hurricane.

In the locker room, the air was thick with a blend of anxiety and anticipation. There's something surreal about seeing your teammates – usually so full of life – sitting in tense silence, each lost in their own pre-match rituals. Some had their headphones on, nodding along to music only they could hear, others quietly prayed, while a few, like me, fidgeted with their boots, checking and rechecking their laces, hoping to bring some semblance of control to the impending chaos.

We gathered for the pre-match briefing, Jonatan – our coach – delivered an impassioned speech about the importance of the game. Honestly, he could give TED Talks a run for their money with the way he could make a football match sound like a life-or-death mission. We knew this was a big deal, but Jonatan's speeches had a way of making it feel like the fate of the universe hinged on our performance.

As we marched onto the pitch, the moment washed over me. The floodlights were blinding, the crowd's deafening roar was like a powerful wave crashing down on us, and my heart, well, my heart was doing an interpretive dance routine.

The whistle blew, and the game was underway. There was no time for doubt, no time for hesitation. I had trained for this, bled for this, sweat for this. I was ready. Or at least, I tried to convince myself I was. It was time to kick some metaphorical balls.

There were moments of brilliance, moments of sheer chaos, and moments when I felt like a pawn in a giant, uncontrollable chess game. Sevilla fought hard, but so did we. Ingrid provided the perfect assist, Lucy's footwork was mesmerizing, and Keira was a literal wall of defence. And then it happened – a moment of pure clarity, one that felt like it was scripted by the football gods themselves.

Midway through the match, the tensions on the field ran higher than a packed stadium's anticipation. The ref, who appeared to have taken a temporary leave of their senses, seemed to have a personal vendetta against Barcelona. Or maybe they just didn't like our colours – who knew? I had just been wrongly accused of committing a foul. My protest, as spirited as it was, fell on deaf ears. Frustration boiled within me as I exchanged words with the ref. It was a classic case of "I didn't do it," and "Oh, yes, you did." 

Just when I thought I was fighting a lone battle against the seemingly biased authority, a surprising ally arrived on the scene. It was none other than the ice queen herself. 

She was pointing at the ball and then at me, passionately discussing the details of the situation with the ref. I couldn't hear their words, but it was evident that Alexia was vehemently advocating for my innocence. As their conversation continued, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers. The referee's expression shifted from adamant conviction to uncertain doubt. The card that had been destined for me seemed to be in limbo, suspended between guilty and innocent.

When the ref finally made a decision, they awarded us a free kick instead of a card, much to my relief. I turned to Alexia, expecting a smug I-told-you-so grin or a victorious wink, she simply smiled and patted me on the back before jogging off back to her position. From afar, I could see her stealing glances so I mouthed a grateful "thank you" and returned to my own position. I could feel my fellow players' quizzical gazes on me but this was no time for a debrief.
With only three minutes to go, we we're at a draw of 2-2. By some miracle, the ball found its way to me, and without thinking, I let instinct take over. Time slowed down, the crowd hushed, and for an instant, it was just me, the ball, and the goal.

The shot was a thing of beauty, a perfect arc that left the keeper sprawling in vain. The net rippled, the crowd erupted, and my teammates swarmed me. I had scored. I had actually scored. The feeling was a mixture of elation, relief, and an overwhelming urge to do a victory dance. The final whistle blew, we were the victors, with a score that felt as sweet as the taste of a fresh churro. It was the moment I had trained for, the culmination of weeks of hard work and sweat.

The realisation that I'd just scored sent adrenaline rushing through my veins. The cheers of the crowd seemed to blend into a chorus of jubilant triumph. My teammates piled on top of me, and it was a tangled mess of shouts and laughter. We were all caught up in the moment, and I could hardly believe it was happening. Amidst the eruption chorus of cheers and shouts, something unexpected happened. As I was surrounded by the joyous chaos of my teammates, I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder, pulling me into a tight hug. I looked up, and there she was – Alexia, of all people, embracing me. I could hardly believe my eyes. 

As I walked off the pitch, Leticia was ecstatic, her foam finger waving with such vigour that it seemed like she was trying to take flight. I joined her in the stands, my family's pride almost tangible. They congratulated me, laughed, and took enough photos to populate an entire cloud server. It was a day to remember, a victory to savour. And in that moment, even the most unruly of butterflies in my stomach had transformed into a symphony of cheers and applause.